


Under His Power

by ficbear



Category: The Devil Rides Out (Movie)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Dom/sub, Fingerfucking, Hypnotism, M/M, Magic, Possessive Behavior, Satanism, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:56:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What were you thinking, Simon?" The Duc says, quiet and low, as if he were talking to himself. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the older man reaches out and lays one hand on Simon's forehead. "We promised your father that we'd take care of you, and now… Now you've been snared in that man's clutches. What a foolish child you can be…"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under His Power

An acrid scent fills his nostrils, dragging him out of unconsciousness like a slap to the face. He recognises the room, the sofa beneath him, and the two concerned faces looking down at him, but somehow he can't find the energy to react, or really to do anything at all.

"Tilt the lampshade towards me, Rex."

The Duc's voice seems so far away, as if he and Rex were players on a stage, and Simon were merely watching from a distant seat. The mirror in the Duc's hands seems important somehow, but he can't quite place the significance. What he does know, though, is that the light reflecting into his eyes stings bitterly, and he can't help but look away.

"Look into the mirror, Simon." The Duc commands, which is all very well, but he isn't the one being blinded. Simon squints a little, trying to face the mirror without baring his eyes completely to the glare, but the effort seems futile.

"Look into the mirror." The Duc repeats, more firmly this time. Simon has only rarely resisted that familiar, forceful tone, and tonight he hasn't a hope in Hell. He looks into the glass, cringing a little at the ridiculous brightness assaulting his eyes, and gives himself up to waiting for his next instruction.

"Keep looking." The Duc says, as if Simon has any choice in the matter now. "And listen to me."

His eyes are adjusting to the light now; it still hurts, but the pain has become familiar to him, and he can withstand it now just as he would the last leg of a long birching. He's over the worst of it now, and all that remains is to persevere a little longer.

"You've been hurt, and your mind is troubled. But you're with your friends now, and there is nothing more to worry about. I'm going to send you to sleep, Simon. Your eyes will close as soon as I touch them."

Sleep. Yes, sleep certainly sounds pleasant, and to sleep amongst friends with nothing to worry about sounds sublime. The Duc's fingertips brush his eyelids, and it's as if the sun has suddenly set, wrapping him in comforting darkness.

"You will wake up at ten o'clock tomorrow morning, and your mind will be free from all pain, and from all anxiety."

The words come to Simon as if through a thick fog, but they soothe him greatly. He could sleep forever like this, safe in his friends' company.

"Open your eyes, Simon." The Duc commands. "Stand up."

He obeys, and his body feels distant and light, as if he were just a scrap of gauze lifted by the wind.

"I'm going to place this symbol of protection around your neck. Once it is there, you will not remove it."

A silver pendant glints in the firelight. A plain cross, one he feels he's seen before, somewhere. The Duc slips the pendant over his head, and as soon as it has come to rest against Simon's shirtfront, he feels a little of that lightness slip away. The metal feels hot, even though the fabric beneath it, and heavy around his neck. It weighs him down, circling his throat like a beast's collar. He won't remove it, as the Duc ordered, but his fingers itch to move the pendant, to pull it away from his flesh. He keeps his hands firmly at his sides, and pushes the urge away.

The Duc guides him to the door, gripping his arm as if he were a wayward child that might run off at any moment. That grip, too, comforts him in its firmness.

"Now you will go directly to my bedroom, where you will lie down, and you will fall into an immediate sleep."

Sleep, again. The thought pleases him; perhaps the incessant itch of the pendant constricting his throat will be eased by sleep.

"Max," the Duc says, opening the door and beckoning the butler waiting outside. "Take Mr Aron to my room."

 

* * *

 

Even in the warmth of the Duc's bed, he can feel that cold presence beside him. The mirror on the wall shows him those eyes, those eyes that are always watching him, and their touch against his skin makes him shiver. Air icy enough to chill his bones brushes over him, covering his face and throat. The cross around his neck feels all the hotter in comparison.

Light spills into the bedroom as the door slowly opens; that presence dissipates instantly, and those eyes no longer watch him. He opens his own eyes slightly, and watches the Duc close the door behind him.

"What were you thinking, Simon?" The Duc says, quiet and low, as if he were talking to himself. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the older man reaches out and lays one hand on Simon's forehead. "We promised your father that we'd take care of you, and now… Now you've been snared in that man's clutches. What a foolish child you can be…"

Simon shifts slightly, enjoying the warmth of the Duc's hand against his skin, and remains silent. There's no answer he can give that would be sufficient, so he holds his tongue and lies there, content to suffer the lecture without complaint.

That warm hand moves slowly, across his cheek and down to his shirt collar. Simon's tie and buttons succumb easily to the Duc's fingers, and in moments he can feel cool air sweeping over the bare skin of his throat and chest.

"I can smell his scent on you, Simon. Your skin is soaked in it." It's more than a simple scolding, now; the Duc's words have an edge of anger to them, just sharp enough for the young man to feel it cutting through the fog surrounding him. His shirt is fully open now, and the cross lies heavily against his chest. He squirms beneath it, trying to push it away, but the Duc catches his wrists and pins him in place. "You've allowed that man to corrupt you, to mould you into his puppet. I can almost see his hands on you, Simon. You gave yourself up freely, didn't you?"

He wants to argue, to deny the accusation just for the sake of contrariness, but something stops him. The hands around his wrists, their firm grip, their warmth, all of it has him mesmerised. He pushes back slightly against the Duc's hold, just to feel that grip tighten; when the older man responds by turning him over onto his stomach, the voice that yelps in surprise doesn't sound like his own, or even like its source is in the same room. His breathing too, shallow and uneven as his trousers are briskly unbuttoned and pushed down, sounds as if it belongs to someone else. In a sense it does; is he even his own man, caught as he is between new mentor and old? Could he resist either, even if he wanted to?

His face is buried in the Duc's pillow, pushed hard against the plush fabric just as it has been so many times before, but now his cheeks no longer burn with youthful embarrassment, now he has no urge to hide his face. Now he simply digs his nails into the pillow and hangs on, spreading his legs shamelessly at the lightest touch from the Duc's hand. He has no shame left to give. A few months under Mocata's tutelage has stripped everything but base desire from him.

A weak groan hums in his chest as the Duc's fingers enter him, cool and slick with fragrant oil. They open him up, delving deep inside him to stroke every inch of flesh he so recently gave up to another, and the feeling of it seems more vivid than ever now. Another groan spills from his lips, and the sound seems to anger the Duc. Those fingers penetrate him harder and deeper still, as if the older man means to turn his groans into cries. But no matter how rough the treatment he receives, no matter how much pain is mixed with the pleasure, Simon's body only responds with more arousal, more hunger. Even a beating would only fire his lusts.

Those probing fingers leave him suddenly, replaced by the older man's cock before the moan of disappointment has died on Simon's lips. The Duc fucks him roughly, briskly, with no care at all for his comfort. There is no tenderness in this, no lenience at all. Pleasure and a show of possession are the whole of it, and Simon finds that what would have appalled him just a few months ago, now excites him like nothing else. He moans again, louder now, as loud as he would have if it were Mocata's altar he sprawled across, and his reward is a firm hand clamped over his mouth. The Duc's other hand snakes down beneath him, fooling Simon for a moment into hoping that he might be allowed satisfaction. Instead, that cruel hand presses the pendant to his skin, and now the silver cross burns unspeakably; now his stifled moans are mixed with hisses of pain, and he bares his teeth pointlessly against the older man's palm. The cross sears his flesh, stabbing pain into him more deeply than the burn of that hard flesh relentlessly impaling him. His yelps of pain become whimpers, and the whimpers slowly become shuddering sighs, until at last the Duc's pleasure peaks, and the young man is filled and marked afresh, as he's been marked a hundred times before.

He lies still even when the hands holding him down, keeping him quiet, are gone. He lets the Duc dress him again without so much of a murmur, allows himself to be turned over again and arranged in the bed as if he were simply sleeping, as if he were a lifeless puppet. His eyes stay closed, even as the doors opens and quietly shuts, as the light of the hallway lamp recedes and leaves him in darkness. Then, and only then, once the chain around his neck has begun to tighten, once the cross weighing down his chest has begun to burn again, once the air has grown bitterly cold again and the mirror on the wall looms over him like a sentinel, does he open his eyes.


End file.
